


Thy Will Be Done

by nosmokingpistol



Series: Marcus: The Chronicles of a Young Exorcist [1]
Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Anger Management, Angst, Mention of Molestation, Other, Prequel, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosmokingpistol/pseuds/nosmokingpistol
Summary: His outbursts had become rare, but it was still there bubbling beneath the surface. His rage had been planted by the red, sweat covered face of his father as he took the hammer to his mother’s skull, nurtured by the cruelty of the bastards at the boys home, and propagated by the beatings of the lecherous Brother Sean.





	Thy Will Be Done

 

Marcus Keane sat in the parish library, pouring over his ancient Greek studies. He wasn’t worried about passing next Monday’s exam. Marcus took to languages like a duck to water, and he didn’t want to merely pass the test, he wanted to get a perfect score. He would accept nothing less from himself. He barely noticed the young priest standing next to him, quietly saying his name.

“Marcus.”

“Mmm?”

“Father Theodore wants to see you.”

Marcus sighed and closed his notebook. “Am I in trouble again?” He had sneaked into the kitchen of the clergy house and nicked an extra pudding Friday night, but he’d already confessed and been absolved.

“I don’t know, Marcus. He has his ‘concerned’ face on.” Marcus gathered his things, tucking them into the blue knapsack he’d gotten as a prize for memorizing the most Psalms last month. He slung it over his shoulder and headed for the door.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” he called out dramatically as he left the room. He heard the others in the library laugh, and smiled. _“I may not be rich and I may not be pretty”,_ he thought, _“but no one can doubt that I’m a damn fine smartarse.”_

*** ***

Father Theodore gestured as his secretary showed Marcus into the office.  “Have a seat, Marcus.”

Marcus sat, wiped his moist hands on his knees, and tried to read the older man’s expression. It was a difficult task in the best of circumstances. He’d been in the Old Bailey in 1973, ready to testify in a burglary case involving his parish rectory, when the IRA bomb went off. The left side of his face was badly damaged and his jaw had been rebuilt with one of his ribs. His good humor and ability to forgive those who had wounded him had made him beloved amongst the residents and staff at the church. Marcus loved him for a more personal reason: the man had been his savior.

The Rector opened his desk drawer and pulled out a jar of cinnamon hard candies.  “Would you like one? I know how much you like sweeties.” Marcus held out his hand and took the jar. He was not about to turn down an offering of a sugary treat. He poured four of them into his palm. Father Theodore cleared his throat and he put one back.

“Thank you, Father. You wanted to talk to me?” He stuffed the candies into his pocket and hoped he remembered to take them out before his body heat fused them into a gooey lump. It wouldn’t stop him from enjoying them all together in one go; he just preferred to extend the pleasure.

“Yes. You have a birthday next week. You’re turning eighteen.”

“As far as I know, yes.” He had become an oblate to the church for five quid and a birth certificate of questionable authenticity.

“You’re almost done with sixth form, you have multiple A levels -- you’re an excellent student, Marcus.”

“Thank you sir.”

“You’re also an extremely gifted lay exorcist – the best I’ve seen in my many years. And therein lays our dilemma.”

Marcus felt uneasy. Despite his abusive childhood and brutal introduction into the ritual of exorcism, he had come to feel at home at the church. The years spent with Brother Sean in the dark recesses of the basement had almost broken his spirit. The Litany of Exorcism had been shouted into him, and when that hadn’t worked to the priest’s satisfaction it had been beaten into him. The abuse was worst when Brother Sean was in his cups. On many occasions he had come to Marcus at night and crawled into the cot beside him. He would describe lewd acts that the demons wanted to use Marcus’ body for, and put his hands where they shouldn’t be. Eventually Marcus learned that if he wet himself, the man would leave in disgust. If he shat himself, he wouldn’t come back for weeks. Either way, it left Marcus wracked with shame and he would cry himself to sleep.

It was only when Father Theodore had arrived that the cruelty had ended. Brother Sean had been sent to an Abbey in Ireland, and Marcus had been moved into a small room in the clergy house. He had safe clean shelter, nourishing food, and regular jobs in the bakery or kitchen. He was allowed to go to the parish school and read as many books from the library as he liked. These were things he could only dream of as he lay in his cot in the dark of night cutting himself at the boy’s home. Eventually most of the priests and staff had stopped treating him as a commodity. There were even a few he counted as friends and mentors.

“Marcus, we have fulfilled our obligation to provide for you until your age of agency, and you in turn have used your gift to save the souls of the possessed. When you turn eighteen, you are free to leave and do as you wish. Get a job, go to university. Eventually settle down, maybe start a family.” He opened the ledger before him and ran his finger down a column. “We can give you two hundred pounds; that should be enough to get you to wherever you’d like. It goes without saying that I would give you my personal recommendation. Do you have a friend you could stay with until you get settled? A cousin, or…?”

“I’ve got no one. This church is my home. Has been ever since I was a young lad, you know that.” Marcus could feel his hands shaking, and he fought back tears. “Please, Father, don’t kick me out.” Father Theodore quickly closed the ledger and stood, walking around the desk until he was facing Marcus. He perched on its edge, and smiled benevolently. “Oh Marcus, my dear boy, you don’t understand. You have the choice, you see, to live a… well, a normal life. A secular life. Or, if you choose, you may continue your education at university and then attend seminary. You need to decide, and we need to plan accordingly.”

“I want to be a priest, I do. I just never thought…” Marcus felt trapped. “I’ve got no money for school and all.”

Father Theodore smiled and reached over to retrieve a large manila envelope on the far side of the desk. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging for you to attend Saint Alban’s College right here in town, on scholarship. It’s small, but they do offer the theology degree and we’re going to adjust your work schedule so you have time for your classes and study. You’ll need to continue as a lay exorcist, of course, in return. If you do well at Saint Alban’s we’ll talk about getting you into a seminary. Here’s the formal application.”

Marcus was overcome by a flush of relief and gratitude. He could no longer hold back his tears. He stood and threw his arms around this godly man who had saved him yet again. “Yes! Oh, thank you, yes!”  He scrubbed a hand over his face and wiped away the tears. “I’ll make you proud, I will!”

“Are you sure this is what you want, Marcus? Are you sure you’ve been called to this life?”

Marcus vividly remembered seeing the world crack in half, and seeing the beatific vision of God on the other side. God had been speaking to him ever since. “I’m sure,” he said, and clutched the envelope to his chest.

The aged priest rose and traced the sign of the cross on Marcus’ forehead. They stood together for a while, kindly mentor and grateful student, and said prayers of thanksgiving for the gifts of God’s grace.

*** ***

Marcus spent his birthday in the basement, exorcising a demon from a middle aged seamstress. She had been brought to them only that morning, and was freed from possession by sundown. Two nuns had swooped in to wash and comfort her before she was returned to her family, and Marcus hurried to the men’s showers to wash the stench of vomit and filth off of himself. The possessed always used used profanity and threats to intimidate those who fought against them, but this had been different. The demon’s words as he began the exorcism had shaken him to the core. He shivered even as he stood under the hot water, the encounter still vivid in his memory:

He had just laid hands, and made the sign of the cross on her forehead when she grabbed his wrist in an iron grip. “I pity you, boy. You want to be His chosen bridegroom, but like any fickle husband He’ll use you up and replace you with someone younger, and prettier.”

“Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Christ hear us.” Marcus had broken free of her grasp and backed away. The demon had shrieked, and then cackled as he raised his crucifix over the woman’s body. “God, the Father in Heaven. God the Son, Redeemer of--”

“Your replacement will be the chosen one.” The demon had writhed suggestively, and licked her lips.  “You will teach him, Marcus, and _you will love him!_ ”

“Redeemer of the world,” Marcus continued, louder this time. “God the Holy Spirit, Holy Trinity, one God, have mercy on us.”

“No mercy, boy. No mercy for you.” The demon had cackled again, knowing that its words had planted doubt.

 _“Shut up!”_ Marcus spat, rage boiling up in him. He took a deep breath, then another, and returned to the Litany. Hours later, the exorcism was finished.

Marcus lingered in the shower, feeling both anger and shame. He had let the demon get to him, and had reacted out of his own arrogance and pride. He knew he had to rein in his emotions if he were to maintain control during an exorcism.  The doubt that the demon had tried to plant was troublesome for him. Logic told Marcus that Lucifer had sent this demon to dissuade him from the priesthood.  He could only conclude that the Morning Star was threatened by his abilities, which would be strengthened once he received the Holy Orders. If anything his resolve was doubled. He knew with a purity of faith that God’s presence was in him. He had always believed that his God would never abandon him. He still believed that -- but now there was the whisper of doubt, slithering like a serpent in the back of his head. 

*** ***

He trotted to the kitchen, his belly growling. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and on the days he was late due to an exorcism he was allowed to rummage in the fridge and make his own supper. He was brought up short by Sister Agnes, who was blocking the door. “No kitchen privileges for you tonight, Marcus. One of the pipes has broken. I left you a plate in the dining room, some mutton stew and a hard roll.”

Marcus mumbled his thanks and trudged down the hall. He hated mutton stew with a passion, but he was hungry enough to eat boiled socks.  Sister Agnes followed behind and as they approached the dining room she passed him and opened the door. Three of the older priests who had taken him under their wing were there, including Father Theodore. The two younger priests he had become friendly with, and the two nuns he worked for, stood behind a table laden with a roast beef, roast potatoes, and brussels sprouts. In the center was a molasses cake with boiled frosting. Sister Agnes knew it was his favorite, and beamed when he mouthed his thanks to her.

Everyone in the room applauded, and he was overwhelmed. He had never had a birthday celebration before; it just wasn’t done in their church community. An extra ladle of soup or a second helping of custard was all he ever expected.  “I don’t… I don’t know what to say except thank you.” Father Theodore raised a hand and walked over to Marcus’ side.

“This is a celebration, Marcus, not just of your birthday, but of your decision to pursue the priesthood. We all know that as an exorcist you bear a special burden. It is not an easy life. That you have chosen it of your own free will as your vocation is a blessing not only to the church, but to those whose souls you will save.”  He waved to one of the young priests, who reached under the dining table and began to withdraw something. “We hope this will help you on your journey.”

It was a Pashley road bike. “My nephew bought it for his son,” Father Theodore explained, “and he wouldn’t ride it. Too lazy, the silly young fool.  I persuaded him to donate it to the church.” Marcus trailed his hand over the glossy steel frame. For once, he was speechless.

Sister Agnes stepped forward with a cardboard box tied with string. “The Sisters traded some of our jellies and marmalades--”

“And rum cakes!” added the ancient Sister Marie.

“And rum cakes, yes Sister. We traded them for this basket. There’s a lunchbox in there too. We’ve got permission to send you off with a proper sarnie every day!”

Father Samuel, one of the newer priests, came forward with yet another box. “We got you a tire pump and a lock at at the resale shop. And a headlight! Don’t want you riding off the cobbles at night, eh?”

Marcus looked around at the little group of smiling faces before him. For most of his life he’d been told he was worthless. He’d grown up feeling he was nothing more than the shite on a stableman’s boot, and the slave of a mad priest in a dungeon. In the last few years he’d been treated as a member of the parish family. He had no way to repay these people for saving not only his life, but his immortal soul. He could only rededicate his efforts to the greater Catholic Church, study hard, and use his gift for the glory of God.

He wanted to make a grand speech, but the rumbling in his stomach and the lump in his throat made it impossible. Instead he grinned from ear to ear, swiped at the tears on his cheeks, and croaked “Let’s eat—who’ll say the Grace?”

*** ***

Marcus knelt at his bedside, hands clasped, and prayed. After his nightly ritual, he prayed his thanks to God for leading him to a new and brighter future, and for the generosity of his friends. After that, he prayed for forgiveness. The doubt planted in him by the demon was still there, despite the happiness he felt. His connection to God was palpable, and His presence and voice were his guide and his comfort. The demon insinuated he would one day lose that communion, and be replaced by another. The thought not only frightened him, but it wounded his pride and angered him as well. Marcus knew he could cast aside pride; there was little he was truly prideful about.  It was the anger that posed the greater threat to his soul.

His outbursts had become rare, but it was still there bubbling beneath the surface. His rage had been planted by the red, sweat covered face of his father as he took the hammer to his mother’s skull, nurtured by the cruelty of the bastards at the boys home, and propagated by the beatings of the lecherous Brother Sean. Marcus sometimes wondered if he had inherited the seed from his mad dog father, and those before him.  He had received spiritual counseling, of course. He tried to follow Moses’ words in Exodus: “Stand firm. The Lord will fight for you, you need only be still.” He had failed to stand firm again today, and he confessed his failure to God as he had so many times in the past.

He heard a small clear voice in the back of his head: _The anger of man does not achieve the righteousness of God._ The passage from James 1:20 had been quoted to him often in his counseling sessions. He vowed to make it sacrosanct as he moved forward.

*** ***

The late September morning was overcast and damp, typical of the eastern moors. He’d gone to Lauds and then breakfast, where Sister Agnes had handed him a sausage sandwich and an orange for his lunch box.  He stood at his bike and placed the box in its basket. As he adjusted the straps on his knapsack he glanced up at one of the school windows and saw Father Theodore standing there.  Marcus waved to him, and the priest gave the sign of the cross in return. There was a new life ahead – a rebirth of sorts – and as Marcus Keane pedaled down the long road to Saint Alban’s College he raised his voice in a song of praise.

 _“O breathe on me, O breath of God, fill me with life anew -- that I may love the things You love,  and do what You would do **…”**                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           _

**Author's Note:**

> Our journey with young Marcus has begun! If you have any suggestions/prompts for future stories, please put them in a comment and I'll see what I can do.


End file.
